Stay High
by varietyofwords
Summary: Post-2x23. Oneshot. Linstead, Erin's spiral, and a dark alleyway. "You're going to get me killed, Halstead,' she snaps in an attempt to cling to her anger, to throw the shame and blame and some version of the guilt that is slowly eating her alive onto him."


**Author's Note:** I haven't written anything since April and I feeling rusty, but I felt inspired by Sophia's tweet about a song that matches Erin's headspace for Season 3 and Derek's spoilers about what Jay will be up to during the upcoming season and came up with this. Only two more (long) months to go until 3x01.

* * *

 _Spend my days locked in a haze trying to forget you, babe._

 _I fall back down._

 _Gotta stay high all my life to forget I'm missing you._

– "Habits (Stay High)" by Tove Lo

Her knees feel weak as another shiver tears through her body; the hot rush of her high replaced by the cold anxiety of a life in freefall as the last of the pills she swiped from Landon begin to exit her system. The crinkled bills in her hand grow damp as her body sweats with need and want, as her stringy hair and her t-shirt cling to her sweaty, goosebumped skin.

It's been awhile since she's done this. Longer still since the score was for her own personal consumption. And even longer since she went without backup, without an intermediary to vouch for her or the quality of the product. But Landon isn't around anymore – the guy wanted nothing to do with her after those suburban cops got the jump on them – and Bunny slings drinks and promises of family like that's going to magically make it all better.

And, honestly, she doesn't care if it's bad H or good H so long as it stops the shaking and shuts down her ability to feel anything other than a high and silences the memories that come rushing back every time she comes even close to sobering up.

So she takes a stumbling step down the dark alleyway away from the doorways where her old unit was always instructed to make their buys, away from the unmarked car that trailed her from Bunny's bar to here at a precise distance of two cars apart.

Her fingernails dig into the skin of her upper arm scratching ruthlessly from underneath the hem of her sleeve to the crook of her elbow and leaving long, red lines in their wake. There aren't any track marks – yet – but the blue vein bulges and her skin still prickles with need the same way it did when she was fifteen and so damn deep into this that she couldn't imagine any other kind of life.

And it turns out fifteen-year-old Erin knew exactly where thirty-year-old Erin would be – alone in a dark alleyway desperate to score having seen the dark side of the world chew up and spit out those closest to her like they were nothing more than garbage.

But this life – the bad news dominated, bleak existence thirty-year-old Erin has been consigned to where her brother is abused and photographed for some sick fuck's fantasy and her best friend is abused and murder for some sick fuck's enjoyment – isn't something fifteen-year-old Erin with her talent for lying and imaginative backstories could have anticipated. Even as Charlie knocked around Annie, even as Teddy disappeared without a word from their mother, even as she came home to the crappy apartment her mother somehow managed to hold onto and found Bunny OD'd on the couch.

And she has barely managed to take another step when her stomach seizes, when she finds herself hunched over retching the contents of her stomach – a bottle of whiskey, the last of Landon's white pills, and whatever drink her mother poured for her half an hour ago – onto the asphalt. It splatters back staining her jeans and boots; it marks her as an easy target for the junkies and the dealers milling about at the end of the alley.

Because now they know she's desperate for a hit. Because now they know her high is bottoming out and she, therefore, will do anything to be back on the up again. Anything to stop her skin from feeling clammy and her stomach from lurching and her heart from aching with every shaky breath.

"Hey, baby," one of the men closest to her says as he saddles up next to her. He doesn't miss a beat, doesn't waste an opportunity as he lazily loops his arm around her shoulders and flashes her both a suggestive smirk filled with yellow-stained teeth and a brief glimpse of a near empty baggie clutched between two fingers. "I got whatcha need."

Erin lets her own drunkenness – and his, for that matter – separate them even though she doesn't have the ware withal to care. Her swaying, stumbling body falls out of step with his while his newfound high lulls his movements and slows his reaction speed down to nothing so his loose grip on her shoulder releases and his arm limply slides off her body without so much as a slurred protest on his part or an ounce of effort on hers.

Other comments reach her ears – ones whistled in appreciation of her body, ones promising to show her a good time with a real man if she just brings that ass over to his place tonight – but her whole body is far too singularly focused on what it wants and needs and craves right now to even bother contemplating the offers. To scoff or to stare or to wonder if her partner – _her ex-partner_ – would be dumb enough to try to play hero in this situation, too. And so she keeps moving forward, keeps inching her way towards the only thing that can keep her from caring and remembering and hurting.

The two men – boys, really – casually flanking the side of the building watch her with suspicious eyes that soften with amusement as she stumbles towards them, as she fumbles with the damp dollar bills in her hand. And she knows they're looking at her t-shirt and her jeans, her combat boots and her stringy hair and thinking she's just another white girl from the 'burbs who partied too hard over news that she didn't get into Princeton.

And the idea twists her lips into sardonic smile because all she's ever known is bad news and all she's ever been is bad news. The kind of bad news no one seems to expect or understand. But, at least, tonight she'll be good news for someone – an easy sale for the low-level dealer in front of her, an easy lay for whatever guy she lets take her home from Bunny's bar tonight, and an easy redemption for the woman who thinks a Crime Stoppers tip and four weeks of free flowing alcohol makes her a mother.

The low-level dealer is a kid who couldn't be much older than her when she started slinging for Charlie – a thought she immediately pushes aside because she doesn't want to think about Annie or Travis or the man who got her out – but he knows his business.

Knows to ask for the cash before offering her a glimpse of the product. Knows to keep friends at hand lest she really is that desperate for a fix. Knows to scram when he sees the glint of a police badge flashed from behind his customer's back.

"Fuckin' narc," the low-level dealer snarls at Erin as he pushes her outstretched hand and the money clutched inside it away, as the dealer and his friends all turn to flee in the opposite direction from which she came.

If this was a bust with her team – _her ex-team_ – the three retreating from the scene wouldn't get very far. Someone – Olinksy and Voight or, maybe, Atwater and Ruzek – would be parked at the entrance of the alleyway ready to ram whoever ran their way with their SUV while she and her partner – _her ex-partner_ – chased them down on foot. But it is just her and him in a dark alley, and the small push of the dealer against her body as it crashes from its latest high is all that is need to send her falling towards the ground.

Yet steady, strong hands reach out to grab her and encircle her waist and hold her upright as yet another shiver tears through her body. And that comforting and familiar scent – a mixture of the body wash she used on the nights she spent at his apartment and the minty toothpaste she used to taste with his kisses and the sweat she used to feel when she'd slide her hand across his back to let him know she's on his six – begins to dominate her senses even as her high bottoms out and her body quakes with need.

But anger – anger that he followed her, anger that he won't leave her alone, anger that he is always here – ultimately wins out because it's the only emotion besides guilt she'll allow herself to feel, and she fights with all the effort she didn't expend earlier on the drunk currently passed out further down the alleyway to push him away. He doesn't fight her – hasn't since the middle of the second week of whatever this is when she decked him outside of Bunny's bar – but he hovers and he stands there and he looks at her with evident concern in those deep blue eyes of his that she has no choice but to feel something other than anger.

"You're going to get me killed, Halstead," she snaps in an attempt to cling to her anger, to throw the shame and blame and some version of the guilt that is slowly eating her alive onto him. Because she tried to make him angry, to make him give up on her for every night for the last two weeks and he's still here looking at her like –

She pushes aside all thoughts comparing her and Voight fifteen years ago or her and Nadia two years ago or her and Halstead tonight because she doesn't want to think about the 'one days' Voight and Halstead promised her and she sure as hell doesn't want to think about the 'one days' she promised Nadia.

One day when she'd be clean and not only have a safe place to crash but have a family with Voight and Camille and Justin, with Nadia and the rest of her team. One day when she and, later, Nadia would get out of the game. One day when she and Halstead wouldn't have to cool it and would actually have a chance. One day when Nadia would be insufferable and infuriating with her 'I told you so' speech. One day when Nadia would be a cop. One day when Erin would be so deliriously proud as she attended Nadia's graduation from the academy. One day when bad news wouldn't hang over her life like a dark cloud. One day when her darkness wouldn't infect all those around her.

"You weren't exactly dealing with the kingpin of the Chicago heroin trade, Erin," Jay replies in a tone that suggests he doesn't find flashing his badge and his gun in a dark alley to be the craziest thing he's ever done on or off the job. "And I'm more concerned about whatever you were trying to buy killing you than–"

"Don't," she interrupts because she doesn't want to hear about his concern, doesn't want to hear the way his voice cracks at his own suggestion that what she wants to do to herself tonight could end up killing her. And she averts her gaze because she doesn't want to see his concern, doesn't want to see him look at her that way.

Like he sees her for something other than the junkie and the bad news she is. Like he believes she's better than all of this. Like he still wants her even after she quit him and the team and Voight, even after her hands were stained red with Nadia's blood.

And she can feel his heavy sigh against her skin despite the distance between them, and Erin doesn't have to look up at him to know that his fingers are sliding against his forehead up near his hairline as he tries to find the right thing to say.

Except there are no right words in this situation; no right thing he can say that will induce her to let him be her hero tonight. And so she turns away from him stumbling and shaking as she tells him to go home, as she tries to block out the feeling of his hands on her hips as he steadies her through the haze of a crashing high.

"Easy, Erin, easy," Jay says softly as her knees buckle, as he helps her down to the curb. One hand braces against her back – his fingers drawing soft, lazy circles over the fabric of her t-shirt – and the other gathers up a fistful of her hair as she finally bottoms out from the last of her high and retches onto the asphalt between her legs.

"I don't need you to save me. I don't need you to play the hero," she protests as she dry heaves. There's nothing left in her stomach – no alcohol, no pills – and Jay has made sure nothing she didn't already have on hand went up her nose or in her veins tonight. Or last night. Or the last four nights, for that matter. Every buy blocked by the flash of his badge; every inquiry stymied by a CI who promised not to sell to her.

(That last one, she thinks, has Voight's fingerprints all over it. And, honestly, Landon doing a complete one-eighty on her probably has more to do with Voight taking his statement than him getting pistol whipped by those dirty cops. But, then again, Voight gave up on her – took her badge and let Bunny push him out the door without another word or a backwards glance – so maybe whatever this is between her and Jay has nothing to do with him.)

"I know," Jay admits so softly that Erin can barely hear him over the sound of her own retching. "But I can't let what you're doing to yourself be Nadia's legacy."

His words are like a slice against her skin; so fast and quick she doesn't see the knife coming and is ill prepared to stop the blood that pools from the wound. Yet, for the first time in weeks, her dull and dead eyes flash with some kind of spark as she pushes him away, as she growls in a deep voice for him to never speak of Nadia again.

"You know she wouldn't want this, Erin," he challenges as she moves on shaky legs to stand. He rises with her, tries to find the right words that will piss her off so much that she won't be able to walk away. "All she ever talked about was how you saved her and how she wanted to be a cop just like you."

"Yeah, well, she also didn't want to be murdered," Erin retorts as she runs the back of her hand over her mouth, as she struggles to stand up on her own two feet. "No one told her that's what would happen if she hung around me, if she didn't demand I leave her the fuck alone."

The two syllables of Erin's name are lost in the stale, midnight air that barely seems to move as she turns away from him. Her movements are sluggish and darkness creeps in and out her vision with every step leaving her feeling faint and disoriented, leaving her open and receptive to the hand that slides into her own and squeezes.

The simple touch causes a different kind of shiver to tear through her body and compounds the guilt she already feels because she knows she's hurting him and she knows Nadia would take her task over this, too. Just as she did when she found out Erin refused to let him drive; just as she did when she found out Erin wasn't willing to give him more than a few lingering looks.

And the memories of those nights, of those slightly terrifying moments when Nadia would get so self-righteous bring tears to her eyes because there's no high to help Erin forget how much she misses her. There's only the bottom and emotions so acute that the craving for another hit strums through her body. Bends and breaks her until she's looking at Jay with more self-pity and self-loathing than she ever wanted anyone let alone her partner – _her ex-partner_ – to see.

"I gotta get high," she mumbles shifting her uneasy gaze around the empty alleyway. The place emptied out as word got around, as Jay's badge continued to glint under the flickering streetlamp, and she knows by the way his eyes sadness and his grip tightens on her hand that he's not going to let that happen tonight.

"Just one more hit. Just one more so I can forget. That's all I need," she lies in a surprisingly smooth tone for someone who's so jittery, so weak and tired. But all he does is shake his head at her as he continues to hold onto her hand, as he continues to repeat the same nonsense about facing things head on that he first told her weeks ago.

Nonsense that now roughly translates to a promise that she isn't getting high tonight; nonsense that now morphs into an irrefutable offer to drive her home because he know she'd chose to stay here and get high, if he let her. Because he knows he'd find her strung out on whatever she can score – H or pills or vodka – as the sun peeks over the Sears Tower, if he walks away now. Because he knows – and, somewhere in a place she can't touch without the drugs and the alcohol, she knows – that this isn't what Nadia would want for her.

"You're not my boyfriend. You're not even my partner," she reminds him harshly lifting her gaze to stare him down with eyes devoid of emotion in the hopes of watching her words slice him open the same way his hurt her. Because if she hurts him enough, if she pushes him away enough then maybe he can get away from her before he ends up like Nadia.

Poor Nadia who didn't have a chance because Erin wouldn't leave her alone; poor Nadia who got sucked into Erin's destructive path because Erin decided she had to play savior.

But she's used this barb one too many times, and Jay no longer reacts to her words. Merely squeezes her hand and steers her towards his parked car with one steady hand pressed against her back as he replies that, yeah, he's not her boyfriend and he's not her partner, but he promised her that he'd always have her back and that's never gonna change.

And that fact isn't something she can so easily forget because he's still here and he still shows up night after night. No matter what part of the city she tries to loose herself in. No matter that her fall back down from the drugs and the alcohol mean the memories of everything that was and everything she wants to forget – the laughter and the horror, equally – begin to creep in leaving Erin desperate to push everyone away and shaking for a fix.

Begin to haunt her and twist her into an older version of herself – a fifteen-year-old version of herself – that fails to notice the man with the piercing eyes watching her closely from inside his SUV parked across the street and then nodding his head once in an appreciative gesture towards Jay as he drives by. Begin to cloud her vision with darkness and pain so she still cannot see an alternative way out of this nightmare, a way to save herself from the guilt and the memory of Nadia and that godforsaken beach that doesn't involve staying high.


End file.
